


your scent beneath my skin

by naeren



Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Angst with a Happy Ending, Apologies, Developing Relationship, F/M, M/M, Mistaken Identity, Misunderstandings, Non-Traditional Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Omega Geralt, Scenting, Unreliable Narrator, Worldbuilding
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-02-07
Updated: 2020-02-23
Packaged: 2021-02-27 22:01:47
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 5,565
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22582966
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/naeren/pseuds/naeren
Summary: Among other mutations, the Trial of Dreams’ concoctions abruptly force Geralt’s secondary gender to present – and just as quickly strips it away.The other boys spend their first rut unable to do more than twitch with overstimulation. Not a single one lives to remember the delicate, fever-sweet scent of omega wafting from Geralt.“You smell of death and destiny. Heroics and heartbreak.”Geralt huffs. Dust from the roads, blood and entrails of monsters, toxic potions sweated from his veins.“It’s onion.”
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Original Male Character(s), Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Yennefer z Vengerbergu | Yennefer of Vengerberg
Comments: 64
Kudos: 556





	1. A cut blossom tries to bloom

**Author's Note:**

> Geralt's omegan secondary gender had been stripped away when he became a witcher, so why is he having such a hard time?
> 
> Extra warning notes:  
> Geralt and Jaskier sleep with other people (explicitly M/M and non-explicitly F/M) before getting together. There are mentions of weight loss from lack of food and coin, for plot reasons. Opinions and mindsets of characters do not reflect the author’s own beliefs.

When Geralt is fourteen years of age, he undergoes the trials. 

Mutagen after mutagen go down his throat, none easily. The bodies of the unlucky are removed daily from Kaer Morhen’s laboratory, but the stench of blood and sick remains heavy in the air.

The Trial of Grasses cull severely. The remaining smattering of boys, Geralt included, move on to an experimental version of the Trial of Dreams. 

Among other mutations, this trial’s concoctions abruptly force the boys’ previously suppressed secondary genders to present – and just as quickly strips their biology away.

Their newly enhanced senses and reflexes are more curse than boon. The screams of the dying pierce their keen ears. The smell of death agonizes their sensitive noses and blurs their sharpened eyes with tears. 

There is no worry that the room of new alphas will succumb to territorial aggression. The other boys spend their first rut unable to do more than twitch with overstimulation. As such, no one can detect the delicate, fever-sweet scent of omega wafting from Geralt. If anyone does, they are unable to act on it, and their knowledge is short-lived. So passes Geralt’s first and last heat. 

On the twenty-second day, Geralt’s fever breaks. He wakes alone. 

He wipes the blood from his mouth, scrapes away the dried slick chafing between his thighs. Geralt the Witcher leaves the remnants of his humanity behind, in the empty laboratory.

* * *

The thing is, every last trace of Geralt’s omega nature is stripped away along with his fertility.

Geralt is the only omega-turned-witcher that trained under Vesemir, but the instructor assures him that clean erasure should work the same both ways. Geralt will never again go into heat or produce slick. 

His scent glands are dormant. One is bisected by a jagged scar. The creature slashed open the flesh above his collarbone, and he felt it the same as any of his countless other injuries. 

His body is hulking, brutish. He smells scentless like a beta. No thick, heavy scent surrounds him, rising with aggression. But anyone who lays their eyes on Geralt of Rivia knows that the witcher had originally been an alpha.

He is generously endowed and virile, as all witchers are. He fucks beta women, not deliberately, but because only prostitutes will share his bed.

* * *

The thing is, alphas hold no effect over him.

His physique is far more impressive than any alpha’s. Even so, the occasional reckless or drunk alpha will try to get a rise out of him with a fog of aggressive pheromones. They do nothing but irritate him.

(Alphas have no reason to try to use compulsion on him, but it has the same mildly irritating, itchy effect.)

He can detect scents, of course. Far better than any alpha human can. Humans can only detect secondary gender pheromones, the unique perfume produced by scent glands. These overt pheromones shift (sweeten, sour, thicken, mellow) based on a person’s emotional state. Even so, they’re an unreliable way to judge a person’s emotional state. Fear and arousal, for instance, can sometimes result in the same scent change in omegas. Sweeter and cloying as they try to appease danger or entice a potential mate. 

Witchers have no such shortcoming. Wherever Geralt goes, no matter the scent - wildapples, warm steel, crackling firewood – he perceives the undertones of fear, anger, betrayal, lust, jealousy. He can detect a myriad of other emotions as well, but he usually tunes out ones not directed at him.

* * *

The thing is, Geralt is not an omega, or an alpha, or a beta. He is a witcher.

* * *

And yet.

Sometimes, 

He _aches_ to be filled.

At first it goes like this. He drifts, unsettled, fever-hot as if in the aftermath of a potion. He stops, fucks a nameless beta whore at the nearest town. His cock gets wet and satisfied. His hole does not. Next to his sated partner, he lays restless and slick-dry and empty.

He broods at the town bar. Even scentless, he still manages to produce an aura more hostile than any alpha’s. The townspeople whisper amongst themselves. "Perhaps this is what remains of the witcher’s rut." "Perhaps he is always this irritable." "He’s infertile anyways – he likely just needs his cock warmed by wet omega cunt."

He does not bed an omega. It’s not that he avoids them. On the contrary, they avoid him, scents turned sour-sweet with fear. It’s just as well. Omegas are just too much effort. Begging to be coddled. Needy.

He does not attempt to fill himself, in the beginning. It doesn’t matter anyways. His fingers are the wrong length and width and angle. It’s a mere drop of water against a parched tongue, teasing and maddening and relentlessly unsatisfying.

Nothing soothes the persistent ache and thrum beneath his skin. He resigns himself to simply disregarding it, as he would a slowly seeping wound.

He fucks eager prostitutes and appeases his cock. It’s enough.

* * *

Men always speak of witchers as massive, hulking monsters. In truth, Geralt is physically large, but hardly a giant.

Sometimes, his pack becomes light, his stomach hollow, the land barren of plants and wildlife. In the face of this, his brutish frame becomes wiry and deceptively lean. He lifts his swords just as easily and moves with even more grace.

* * *

A woman watches Geralt at the bar. He has been steadily gaining notoriety as the years pass, but her gaze, piercing as it is, is strangely warm.

She is a beta druid named Eluna. She proposes a contract with him. Eluna does not care for monsters, but she does want an ingredient from a forest full of them. Geralt brings the painstakingly collected plants back to her cottage. 

He beds her. She does not smell of honeysuckle or raspberries, but her pleasure is clean and sweet in the air.

She sees him off in the morning, pressing a pouch heavy with coin into his hands.

Amongst the orens is a charm and a note. _“For sightless eyes to see and not know.”_

The charm does not make him invisible to the naked eye. It does, however, apply a mild glamour once tied to his medallion. His shock-white locks and amber eyes fade into nondescript brown hair, brown eyes. The medallion itself warps, a wolf transformed to a moon. 

Geralt unties the charm, puts it away in his pack. It’s innocuous magic, but he will still wait to dispose of it properly.

* * *

Several months pass. The charm remains in his pack. The people and land in the area seem to have a particular hatred for witchers, and several towns have run him out. Winter fast approaches and Geralt sorely needs to restock on supplies.

He hunts. He smoothes the lean, heaving flank of his latest kill and considers his near-empty pack.

He approaches the next town as Geris the hunter, lean and slightly hunched, pelts piled high on Roach’s back. It’s a simple glamour, but somehow infinitely more effective than a ducked head, a hood pulled down low. Geralt of Rivia is apparently only recognizable by his wolf medallion, white hair, and cat-like eyes.

Geris enters the bar. The townspeople glance up at the cold draft he brings in. When the newcomer does nothing more than call for a beer and determinedly mind his own business, the people turn back to their food and drink and conversation. Geris is left blessedly alone the entire night.

It’s enjoyable.

* * *

Hides are worth a miserably meager amount of coin. Conveniently, Geris the hunter only makes an appearance when Geralt already looks well on his way to the part of a mangy wanderer.

Fortunately, the latest town’s saddler, Lorain, offers a meal and roof for the night, calloused thumbs rubbing slow circles into the pelt he’s just purchased from Geris.

The smell of arousal directed towards him isn’t unfamiliar, but it’s the first time that this particular scent is infused with an alpha’s pheromones. It’s not that’s it’s rare for an unattached alpha to want to bed a beta without care of contraception. But Geralt of Rivia is imposing, threatening, never the object of an alpha’s desire.

Evidently, Geris the hunter is.

Lorain is well-built, thick. He smells of leather and beeswax. He nods approvingly when Geris brings Roach into his stable. “No use for a pretty ride,” the man muses later over dinner. “Better off with a sensible mount than a delicate one who won’t survive the winter.”

Lorain draws a bath for Geris. It is still early when Geris is done, and there is no bedroll laid out for him.

“Come to bed with me,” Lorain offers. It is not a question, nor is it a command. The man’s scent rises, though he knows full well his alpha pheromones do nothing for the beta Geris. Freshly cured hides, wax dripping from the hive. 

He opens Geris up adeptly with oil-coated fingers. 

“You take it so well,” Lorain manages, voice tight with restraint, as Geris sinks slowly down on his cock. 

It stretches and burns. The oil is sufficient to prevent immediate injury, but there is no slick to ease the way. Even so, Geris’ body sings as he is filled to the hilt. He crests and floats in a haze of excruciating pleasure. He distantly comprehends Lorain’s stuttering thrusts as the man chases his own release.

Lorain sleeps. Geris lays awake. His mind is blessedly clear. He despises it.

Geris dresses and heads to the stables before dawn, leaving Lorain snoring in his bed. The bruises pressed into his skin the previous night are healed over. A small sack of bread and hard cheese rests next to Roach’s gear, along with a generous bottle of polishing oil. His backside twinges with only mild discomfort. It becomes a mere specter of a feeling by midday.

* * *

Only one-fourth of the bottle goes towards Roach’s saddle. He makes use of the rest in a different sort of maintenance, oil levels dropping once a year to ensure that he stays clear-headed and battle-ready.


	2. The moon revolves, unknowingly, about the earth

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Among other mutations, the Trial of Dreams’ concoctions abruptly force Geralt’s secondary gender to present – and just as quickly strips it away.
> 
> The other boys spend their first rut unable to do more than twitch with overstimulation. Not a single one lives to remember the delicate, fever-sweet scent of omega wafting from Geralt.
> 
> * * *
> 
> “You smell of death and destiny. Heroics and heartbreak.”
> 
> Geralt huffs. Dust from the roads, blood and entrails of monsters, toxic potions sweated from his veins. 
> 
> “It’s onion.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Jaskier makes his appearance. Geralt is just trying to figure things out.
> 
> Additional warnings:  
> Previous chapter’s warnings apply.

Geralt picks up a stray in Posada.

The young bard’s purse and stomach are empty. He laments and grouses to make this point very clear. Geralt hums. This Jaskier is not nearly as destitute as he claims. Geralt can recognize that the bard’s too-clean “beta” scent is the result of scent-blockers. 

No, not scent-blockers. Suppressants. Scent-blockers simply erase the user’s natural scent entirely, undertones and all. Blockers are more than sufficient for dull human noses, but suppressants only work on overt pheromones. 

The usual use for suppressants is on other secondary biological functions, of course.

(Geralt has tried suppressants himself. His body rejects and flushes them like common poison.)

* * *

“You smell of death and destiny. Heroics and heartbreak.”

Geralt huffs. Dust from the roads, blood and entrails of monsters, toxic potions sweated from his veins. 

Excitement and interest; radiating not from himself, but from the bard.

“It’s onion.”

* * *

Jaskier _feels_ , freely and easily, and each emotion is thrust into stark relief against the clean backdrop of his scent. Geralt could identify the bard solely from the dense, indistinct cloud of lust that surrounds the man wherever he goes. Even without his pheromones, he doesn’t seem to have any difficulty acquiring bed partners of all genders. He’s pretty, though not unreasonably enough to have trouble passing as a beta.

It’s not just arousal. A rising empathy as the king of elves tells a ruinous tale. A never-ending ouroboros of love and heartbreak with each partner he beds. A sharp spike of panic when his latest conquest’s husband comes after him with raised blade. (Fear is a common one, but curiously, never directed at the witcher himself.)

Geralt detects not a whiff of the bard’s original scent through his heightened emotions. The other magical and nonhuman beings they encounter don’t spare the beta bard a second glance. 

But to Geralt’s keen nose, Jaskier’s scentlessness is too blank, too cold. Even betas aren’t _truly_ without scent, holding just faintest trace of humanity, or magic, or other.

* * *

Melitele knows why the bard would rather protect his beta image than mask his presence entirely from all manner of dangerous creatures on the road. 

(A moot point, perhaps, since the bard can’t seem to live without his beloved perfumes. He’s constantly cycling between the little bottles in his pack: lavender, chamomile, bergamot, gardenia. He runs off occasionally on little excursions to “add to his collection.” It’s not a bad cover-up, all things considered. Geralt wonders which of the vials conceals the suppressant.)

Either way, the bard’s incessant chatter would still attract trouble for miles around.

* * *

They travel together. 

The road forks. They part ways. 

They meet again, and the cycle repeats.

* * *

Geralt can’t blame Jaskier for using suppressants. His motivations are hardly a mystery. The bard is a free spirit, and lone unmated omegas don’t stay that way for long. No sane alpha on the Continent would let their mate frolic about in billowy finery, singing bawdy tunes and fucking every pretty thing in sight.

And perhaps more specific to the bard, most betas and omegas would never stoop so low as to allow a male omega to penetrate them. That’s if they’re even aware that male omegas can experience pleasure with the act. Common perception is that they have small vestigial outer sex organs, a notion undoubtedly propagated by alphas.

Geralt certainly hasn’t had any complaints from his partners. 

He’s seen Jaskier undressed enough times and heard enough gossip from his paramours to be confident the bard hasn’t, either.

On the bright side, the bard’s notoriously enthusiastic cock certainly helps in regards to his deception.

* * *

Geralt exhales slowly, trying to tune the bard out as he soaks up the steaming bathwater.

He can’t relax. 

“…one night bodyguarding your very best friend in the whole wide world!”

If he’s meant to stand guard over the idiot all night, doesn’t he deserve at least a moment of peace now?

“I’m not your friend.” Hopefully that will shut the bard up.

At least it’s a relief to be finally rid of the stench of selkiemore innards. He smells blessedly of clean skin and bath salts, though unfortunately rather the same as– 

“Oh, you usually just let strangers rub chamomile onto your lovely bottom?”

–Jaskier.

The nape of his neck twinges as he turns to scowl at the bard.

Probably strained himself earlier, cutting his way out of the monster’s gut.

* * *

It’s still a bit ludicrous that the bard covers up his scent so thoroughly and then chases tail wherever he goes. Whatever trouble he avoids with the use of suppressants, he makes up for two-fold by perpetually thinking with the wrong head.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the short update. I ended up splitting the chapter I’d finished because I’ve been going back to change/update details while drafting and revising the next part.
> 
> I’d like to properly go into why Jas uses suppressants, but it’ll be hard to work in all the details since I’d like to keep this story in Geralt’s perspective only. Maybe I'll do a companion piece/remix from Jaskier’s POV later on.
> 
> Side note: In this version of A/B/O, betas are the equivalent of modern humans (just sterile). It’s not uncommon for them (or any secondary gender) to have high sex drives. These types of betas are ideal as prostitutes since they’re virile and infertile. So that’s why it’s not too surprising for Jaskier to be so energetic as either an omega or beta.


	3. Not all that glitters is gold

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _“The red sky at dawn is giving a warning, you fool! Better stay out of sight.”_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yennefer comes along, bringing a whirlwind of angst with her.
> 
> Extra warnings (mild chapter spoilers):  
> Previous warnings apply.  
> There is non-consensual mind-reading from Yennefer on Geralt. This is canon from the TV series. This chapter delves into their F/M relationship, if you’re sensitive to that sort of thing. It’s hopefully vague enough not to be discomfiting, but I can provide skip-points if it is.

The witch is curious. Truthfully, so is Geralt. 

It’ll have to wait. “Jaskier here needs immediate attention. And then, if you’d like, I’ll indulge your curiosity all night long.”

They’re close, breathing each other’s air. Geralt’s nose wrinkles slightly. The room is saturated with incense, but he detects nothing from the witch. A scent blocker.

“Don’t give me that look. The enchantment needs to remain uncontaminated by my particular scent. Besides, you’re hardly one to talk.” 

The witch throws a pointed glance at Jaskier, muted and slumped against the sensually shifting bodies. Geralt’s hackles rise. 

“You can stop with the brutish growling. As I’m feeling particularly generous, I’ll heal your friend and keep his little secret. And then, witcher… I’m sure we’ll find some other things to keep us entertained.”

* * *

The witch daubs her wrists, rubs the pulse-points together. Her scent comes into sharp focus: lilac and gooseberries. She’s all terrible beauty and passion and greed and lust, an inferno of desires. 

He can’t put a name to her secondary gender. Whatever she is, her pheromones are heady, intoxicating in a way that shouldn’t be possible for him. It drives him mad with want.

In his distraction, she slips into his mind, steals into the crevices until she knows every inch of him. He yields.

* * *

Later, she rides him amongst the ruins of the mayor’s house. He shuts his eyes, focuses on their pleasure, even when jealousy and arousal begin seeping from the windows. Jaskier is safe. Now he can indulge.

As their sweat and spend begin to cool, he makes to shift away. Her hand halts him, splayed out against the slow beat of his chest. He goes back down easily. If it’s what she wants, he’ll show her a witcher’s stamina.

The witch has other ideas. 

She narrows her eyes in concentration, flourishes her hands. One glistens suddenly with slick; the other grasps a long, tapered toy. She raises a brow.

(“I’m serving the people of this town. _Filling a need._ ”)

Orgies for the stifled townspeople. This, for Geralt of Rivia.

He gives himself to her.

He makes no sound beyond harsh pants, but her feainnewedd-violet eyes observe his furrowed brow, his parted mouth, his heaving sides.

* * *

The brothel visits stop. The glamour charm collects dust in his pack. Yennefer pays no mind to his amber eyes or his milk-white hair or his scar-mapped skin. It’s easy like this, with her practiced fingers, her conjured slick.

They are the same but not the same, biologies imperfectly sacrificed to magic. She retains her pheromones but loses her designation. He retains certain compulsions but loses the functions to facilitate relief. He feels he might have drawn the shorter end of the stick here.

They come together. They come apart. Geralt counts the days away, aches for her voice and touch and scent. Even then, they are never far from the other. They are destined.

(Above all else, Yennefer desires a child. Geralt gives her everything, but he cannot give her this.)

It’s enough.

* * *

_“The fairer sex, they often call it. But her love's as unfair as a crook. It steals all my reason, commits every treason of logic with naught but a look.”_

* * *

Geralt is well aware of the inspiration behind this particular ballad.

Ever since the djinn, the bard has been out of sorts. He’s been tripping over his own feet, wandering haplessly into danger even more than usual. Most recently, he’s begun composing that damned song, muttering and humming to himself. 

Though he appears convincingly unaffected beyond the occasional bout of melodrama, the lustful jealousy has been steadily growing, transmuted by now into full-on _heartache_.

His languishing peaks, with precision, whenever they encounter Yennefer.

* * *

_“A storm breaking on the horizon of longing and heartache and lust.”_

* * *

Jaskier is no stranger to love and heartbreak, but his past lovers have never elicited this much emotional turmoil. Usually he loves as he fucks, hard and fast; his dearest leaves him; he yearns disconsolately after her – all to be immediately forgotten when the next pretty thing catches his eye.

His feelings for the witch persist. Geralt thinks he might understand how it could be difficult to escape Yen’s allure.

It’s not for lack of trying. Jaskier’s cock is as energetic as ever. It seems like he’s attempting to pound his emotions into any willing body he meets, but inevitably, he reeks of dissatisfaction afterwards.

* * *

_“I’m weak, my love, and I am wanting.”_

* * *

Why did Jaskier have to fall for the witch, of all women? The bard does love throwing himself into peril, but even Geralt has difficulty handling her mercurial temperament. Jaskier would be swept away in an instant.

Though, surprisingly, it seems the bard has the self-preservation to contain himself in the actual presence of the witch. Whenever Yennefer appears, Jaskier goes quiet, watching their little song and dance with a mixture of trepidation and resignation.

It might just be the lilac and gooseberries, the unmistakably dangerous aura. His rare good sense certainly hasn’t carried over to other aspects of his life. From the very beginning, Jaskier has never possessed an ounce of fear for Geralt. 

As such, whenever Geralt returns from Yen, Jaskier only emanates enviousness, heartbreak, betrayal, and more than a little arousal. Geralt is treated firsthand to the full force of Jaskier’s feelings aimed in his direction, at the scent of lilac and gooseberries clinging to his skin. It’s distracting.

And not just on those occasions. Geralt catches intermittent flashes of it as they’re on the road, by the campfire, in the inn. He feels just a little guilty, but Yen is his destined.

And if the alternative is the bard being eviscerated for attempting his brand of seduction on the witch, well. Geralt will tolerate being the safer, indirect outlet for Jaskier’s passions and jealousy.

* * *

_“If this is the path I must trudge, I welcome my sentence.”_

* * *

Geralt and Jaskier have travelled together for two years. It’s interspersed only with the time Geralt spends in Yennefer’s bed, one or two nights at a time. 

The bard is unwell, and not just from heartache. Before, Jaskier had left for weeks, even months at a time, presumably to deal with his biology. Now he stays. Geralt is no expert, but he highly doubts Jaskier should stay on suppressants for such extended periods of time. He’s heard stories of the types of consequences heat-evasion can have, particularly on humans.

Perhaps the bard senses, subconsciously, that Yennefer can provide what he truly needs. Geralt wonders if the witch would agree to bed Jaskier, take the edge off. 

She knows, of course. Even without her mind-reading, Jaskier is an open book. She seems to find the bard’s feelings tolerably amusing at best, but his suppressants intrigue her. The witcher and his bard, two sides of the same coin.

She would allow the bard her body. And then, she’d thrill in being the one to reveal him, know his scent, _fill his need_ –

“Geralt, what’s got you so riled up? You sound like you’re having a pissing match with a werewolf!” Despite the low undercurrent of heartache, Jaskier peers at Geralt with no small measure of concern.

The low growl halts abruptly in Geralt’s throat. “Hearing the same damn song a thousand times would drive any man mad,” he mutters.

The bard lets out an affronted huff and pointedly resumes strumming his lute.

No, Jaskier can stick to singing his maudlin songs. Geralt doesn’t share.

The next time they encounter Yennefer, Geralt rents a small, secluded place for the bard and pointedly informs him that he’ll be gone for a full month.

The air reeks conspicuously of disinfectant when he returns. The sickness, at least, is gone from the bard’s scent. Geralt counts it a success.

* * *

_“The red sky at dawn is giving a warning, you fool! Better stay out of sight.”_

* * *

Jaskier seems cheerfully unaffected by Téa and Véa’s poor reception of his advances. 

Geralt can _almost_ ignore the weeping trail of lovesickness following the bard’s every step, ever since he’d witnessed Geralt leaving Yen’s tent this morning.

It hardly matters. The bard seems resigned enough to his plight. He’ll get over it, as he always does.

For now, they have a mountain to scale and a dragon to hunt.

* * *

_“But the story is this: she’ll destroy with her sweet kiss.”_

* * *

Destiny be _damned_.

Borsch cuts in firmly. “That's enough. I'm going to save you both a lot of hurt with a little pain now. The sorceress will never regain her womb. And though you didn't want to lose her, Geralt, you will.” 

“He already has.” Yennefer turns away.

Geralt stares after her. A little pain, Borsch said. If Geralt looks down, he’s certain he’ll see his guts spilled out onto the ground, his stomach split wide, raw and gaping.

* * *

Jaskier’s jealousy eases a bit at the witch’s parting words. He sidles up, quips cheerily– 

The fury smothers Geralt’s senses.

“If life could give me one blessing, it would be to take you off my hands!”

* * *

And then, Jaskier leaves him too.

* * *

Geralt comes back to himself gradually. The red haze fades from his eyes, the ringing from his ears. The entire area is doused with sharp, astringent hurt.

Yennefer is probably half a continent away by now, able to portal wherever she wishes. 

Jaskier cannot. The bard was already distracted and lovesick on the way up, and now he reeks like a wounded animal, and the mountainside is full of predators ready to ambush any susceptible prey.

_“Fuck.”_

He sets out.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> DESTINY: Who's your better half? Your destined?  
> GERALT: Yennefer  
> DESTINY: ... Let's start easier. Who _seems_ to be good for you, but only brings you grief?  
> GERALT: Jaskier  
> DESTINY: Geralt, _no_.
> 
> I revised this chapter several times as I rewrote the draft for Chapter 4, so please let me know if something looks choppy.
> 
> The timeline is rearranged a bit from the show.


	4. Facing the music

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Why are you here, Geralt?” Jaskier keeps walking. 
> 
> “The mountainside is overrun with monsters. You wouldn’t make it back down alive.”
> 
> The noise that leaves Jaskier’s throat might be a laugh. It might be a strangled scream. “Isn’t that exactly what you want?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I’d planned on adding some clarifications to the first three chapters about secondary genders, but so far I haven’t found a clever way to add in the details while maintaining the story’s tone and POV. If you’re interested in a summary, feel free to check out [ this standalone explanation ](https://naeren.tumblr.com/post/190887443122/worldbuilding-add-on-your-scent-beneath-my-skin)

“Why are you here, Geralt?” Jaskier keeps walking. 

This close to the source, Geralt’s nose stings and eyes water with the acridness of the bard’s confusion and rejection and hurt.

“The mountainside is overrun with monsters. You wouldn’t make it back down alive.”

The noise that leaves Jaskier’s throat might be a laugh. It might be a strangled scream. “Isn’t that exactly what you want?”

“I don’t want you to get hurt.”

“Right. It’s a bit too late for that, though, isn’t it?”

Geralt closes his mouth but he continues to follow several steps behind the bard, wincing a little at the mix of bitter, acidic, and brackish scents assaulting his senses. 

Surely Jaskier is no stranger to suffering poor company, if only out of self-preservation. It’ll merely be until the bard reaches the bottom of the mountain safely. Geralt has no delusions about being a good man, but he still doesn’t want to have the bard’s blood on his hands.

It’s slow going, with Jaskier leading the way. He doesn’t say another word, but an untouchable frigidness settles over his emotions.

* * *

The Child Surprise.

_(“I need no one. And the last thing I want is someone needing me.”)_

_(“And yet, here we are.”)_

The djinn.

_(“I said some things to him. He’s a…”)_

_(“A friend?”)_

_(“I’d like it not to be the last thing he remembers.”)_

All of it.

* * *

“Jaskier,” begins Geralt when the bard stops to set up camp for the night. It’s poorly rehearsed in his head, far from perfect, but he can’t tolerate any more of this unsettling silence.

The bard continues picking at his stale bread.

“I was… wrong, earlier.” The words grate through his throat. Jaskier’s hands still. Geralt forges on. “I was hurt, and I lashed out at you.”

The bard finally glances up, setting his bread down.

“I’m sorry for taking my frustration out on you and blaming you for things that weren’t your fault.”

Jaskier hums a little, considering. “I’m aware I shouldn’t have provoked you when you were upset, but what you said can’t be undone so easily.”

“I know. I can’t take those words back, but it won’t happen again. Will you forgive me?”

A long sigh. “I’ll try, Geralt. But don’t make promises you can’t keep.”

“I can promise to try my best,” Geralt amends hastily.

“I’m not asking you to strive to be perfect all the time. Everyone makes mistakes.”

“Then what _can_ I do?”

“I wasn’t done yet. Perhaps I’m being just as quixotic about this as I apparently am about everything else. Even so, even after all that’s happened lately, I see the good in you. I value and appreciate you. All I’m asking for is that you make _some_ effort to return my sentiments.”

“I don’t understand,” Geralt admits. “Didn’t I apologize?”

Jaskier deflates. “I appreciate that you apologized, and I know you’re not one for expressing your emotions. Just… think about what I said. _Carefully._ I don’t think there’s any point to further discussion before then. I’m going to turn in for the night.”

He sets out his bedroll, lays down, turns his back. Geralt sets up his own camp a watchful distance apart.

* * *

As the hours pass, the surrounding area becomes steeped with the scent of the bard’s internal agitation. Now, exasperation and resignation from their failed conversation have bled into the mix.

It lingers, though Jaskier is silent and still.

Geralt keeps vigil and dispatches a few wargs drawn in by the bard. Wiping tar-black blood from his blade, he’s grimly validated in his decision to escort Jaskier to safety.

Sword at the ready, Geralt falls into contemplation.

* * *

_(“I see the good in you. I value and appreciate you.”)_

* * *

Before Jaskier, Geralt’s reputation had swirled and settled around him like a cloak, more effective in pushing others away than any Aard. 

(Jaskier had undoubtedly heard plenty of terrible rumors by the time they met in Posada. But after an initial misstep or two, the bard had decided to form his own opinions.)

People had despised Geralt, feared him, turned him away even when he was injured and bleeding out at their very door.

(No matter his mood, Jaskier always perks up when he sees Geralt, a slow, pleased smile lighting up his features. And somehow he’s swayed many others to do the same, or at least tolerate Geralt’s presence.)

If there was work for a witcher, they’d grudgingly offer a contract. But once the task was complete, the coin handed over, he’d be driven away at knifepoint.

(Jaskier draws people in and wins them over with his easy charm. He’s received countless enticing offers from kings and queens to remain and serve their courts, but instead follows Geralt to the ends of the Continent. From Posada, to Cintra, to Rinde, to Caingorn, and all the countless places in between.)

Sometimes, Geralt had hired help on his jobs. Given the chance, they’d have eagerly stabbed him in the back and ran off to claim the reward for themselves.

(Jaskier says nothing, despite all the times Geralt has left to fuck the very woman he loves.)

* * *

Ah, Yennefer.

After firmly rejecting his destined Child Surprise to the point of perpetual insomnia, why had Geralt clung so desperately to his destiny-fused connection with the witch?

Her desires were insatiable, consuming everything and everyone in its path.

(“Damn it, Yennefer! Tell me what you want!”)

(“I want everything!”)

Even Jaskier had known to keep his distance from the witch, romantic feelings be damned.

But she had _known_ Geralt. For once it’d been easy, with Yennefer as his sanctuary.

* * *

The stifling air abates as Jaskier slips into a fitful sleep.

Geralt inhales deeply for a moment, finally able to breathe easily.

* * *

_(“Even after all that’s happened lately…”)_

* * *

The hard impact against the bard’s soft, untensed gut,

(Confusion. A winded exhalation punched out of the bard’s lungs.)

the repeated jabs at his person,

(Small pinpricks of hurt. “I mean, are you _trying_ to hurt my feelings, Geralt?”)

the pointed disregard as Geralt leaves again and again for the witch,

(Silent jealousy and betrayal and arousal, making Geralt’s skin prickle under its intensity.)

the vehement tirade and cold dismissal on the mountains.

(And now, here they are.)

* * *

Dawn breaks. Geralt looks out over the trees and cliffs. The view is beautiful. 

Jaskier’s wakes. The motley of emotions returns as he comes to awareness.

“I thought about it, last night,” Geralt ventures as the bard collects his things.

“Any revelations?”

“Yes. You’ve been a good friend to me, and I haven’t been the same for you.”

Jaskier turns his full attention to Geralt.

“From the start, even with my reputation and all the terrible things I’ve done, you’ve had faith in me. We’ve traveled to the ends of the continents, and you’ve been by my side through it all. You’ve had my back.”

The bard nods stoically, but gratification soothes the maelstrom of his feelings. The corners of his mouth lift just slightly.

“But I’ve treated you worse than the shit on Roach’s hooves. I’ve saved you on countless occasions, sure, but that’s no excuse to be an ass to you the rest of the time.”

Jaskier’s brow furrows a bit. He gestures for Geralt to continue.

“Especially after meeting Yennefer. Abandoning you at her beck and call. Taking it out on you after she left, even though you were the one who stayed. You know me, Jaskier, so you know that you’re better than I deserve. But I’ll try to appreciate you more and to be a better friend to you.”

“Hmm,” Jaskier nods slowly. “Well, that was much better than yesterday. And you delivered it with a sincerity I hadn’t even hoped for. Thank you for that. It will still take time for my feelings to recover, but I accept your apology.”

Geralt lets out a breath.

* * *

They complete the rest of the descent. 

Despite some lingering disquiet, Jaskier gradually slips into his typical lively chatter. 

Geralt starts to respond several times, stops. He doesn’t… know what to say. Fortunately, the bard doesn’t seem bothered that Geralt hasn’t suddenly become a riveting conversational partner.

They retrieve Roach once they reach flat ground.

“Fancy a little detour to Redania? I’m thinking I ought to get the lute restrung. I can restock on wood polish as well.” The bard looks to Geralt expectantly.

Geralt hesitates.

Jaskier's scent is still sober, but as the seconds stretch out, it takes on a hint of something almost - _warm_?

Geralt isn't sure why, but he relaxes a little. Cautiously, he ventures, “Why Redania? There must be respectable luthiers elsewhere.”

Jaskier lets out a theatrical gasp, cradling his instrument. “ _Elsewhere?_ Do you really believe that this beauty, passed down from the king of elves himself, deserves to have second-rate strings? No, she’ll be lovingly cared for by the master luthier at Oxenfurt Academy.” He shakes his head as if in disbelief, but his eyes crinkle at the corners, and his scent remains steady.

_(“We could head to the coast. Get away for a while.”)_

The lute _is_ starting to look a little worn. Geralt grunts.

“Excellent! I knew you’d come around.”

And so they head south, towards Oxenfurt.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> They’ve made it down the forested mountain, but are they out of the woods?
> 
> Chapter count has been increased.
> 
>  **Warg** : A subspecies of wolf  
>  **Caingorn** (Dragon Mountains): Where S1x06 - Rare Species takes place, far north on the Continent.  
>  **Oxenfurt** : A city in Redania, south of Caingorn and near the west coast. Jaskier is an alumnus of Oxenfurt Academy, where he studied the seven liberal arts.  
>  **Luthier** : A specialist who builds and repairs string instruments

**Author's Note:**

> Un-beta'd. Please let me know if you see any mistakes.
> 
> Thanks for reading!


End file.
